If We Met Up at Midnight
by c-r-roberts
Summary: There aren't many reasons to celebrate in District 12. Even as a Victor. But the arrival of the New Year is one of them. Canon. Set pre-Victory Tour.


_A/N: Written for Prompts in Panem's Holidays in Panem Special Challenge, December 2014._

* * *

There aren't many reasons to celebrate in District 12. Even as a Victor. But the arrival of the New Year is one of them. It's even considered a government-sanctioned holiday, meaning merchants' store fronts are closed and no one works in the mines. And it's tradition to stay up late the night before and wait for midnight to strike. We did it every year back in our tiny home in the Seam, even when it was just me and Prim, a weak fire, a warm mug of Lady's goat milk split between us, and a mother who couldn't keep her eyes open past ten at night.

This year is obviously different.

This year, my fancy new house in Victor's Village is bustling on New Year's Eve. We've invited the Hawthornes, and there's a fire in the hearth and a turkey in the oven. The bird fills the kitchen with a heavy, buttery aroma; a fresh kill from this morning's hunt. It smells better than any meat I could have bought from Rooba the butcher, which had been my mother's original plan. I'd bought a whole chicken anyway though, and Rooba gave me a funny look when I did because of the turkey hanging from my belt. But then I marched the chicken straight to the Hob and handed it over to Greasy Sae so she could make something decent and save everyone from another day of wild dog soup. It seemed like the right thing to do, considering the holiday and all.

Today had been a good hunting day. Crisp and cold, but in a refreshing way, and the sunrise had tinted the sky a whiteish orange when the sun appeared behind the snowcapped trees. I'd been successful too—stumbling upon the pack of turkeys when I'd really just been hoping for a few fat squirrels. Then, on my way back, I'd passed a chestnut tree, and I couldn't resist the urge to gather a few handfuls of them. My mother smiled ruefully when I emptied my pockets onto the kitchen table, proclaiming we'd roast them, just like Dad used to do. So now the living area has a familiar nutty, earthy scent that almost makes me feel like he's here with us as we sit and listen to little Posy Hawthorne bang cheerfully on the keys of the piano that Prim's patiently teaching her how to play.

I watch quietly from the corner of the room, trying to get comfortable in a stiff upholstered arm chair that's meant more for decoration than function. When my gaze drifts to Gale, seated next to his mother and Vick on our sofa, he looks clean and relaxed, dressed in his only pair of dress slacks and a simple cotton dress shirt. His lips upturn when his eyes catch mine, but I can't bring myself to smile back. Instead, I glance down into my lap and fiddle with the thick, cable knit wool of the sweater dress I wear, complete with heavy tights and Capitol-made leather boots. And I don't look up until my mother makes her way in from the kitchen, telling us that dinner's ready. _As long as everyone who's coming is here._ She looks at me expectantly.

No one else is coming. Not that I hadn't put in a good faith effort to up our guest count. But it's not my fault if no one else accepted the invitation to the Everdeen New Year's Eve Party. Well, I suppose technically it is, but there's nothing I can do to change that now.

I'd invited Haymitch over for dinner when I dropped two bottles of Ripper's white liquor off at his house earlier. It's something I've started to do at least once a week. I figure keeping him imbibed is the least I can do to thank him for keeping me alive. As I'd expected, Haymitch had scoffed at me. I knew he'd rather spend the night alone in his filth of dirty dishes and stacks of old yellowed papers with just his alcohol to keep him company. I'd shrugged, telling him to suit himself. And as I'd turned on my heel to leave, his tired gray eyes cut right through me and my indifference.

"But maybe you should ask the boy."

His voice was gruff and he'd pretty much mumbled the sentence at me from his sprawled position on his old worn out recliner—the only piece of furniture in the whole house he ever seems to use—and he'd sounded half asleep or half drunk. Or both. But he was right. I had to ask Peeta.

Even though the thought of doing so made my stomach churn.

Peeta and I aren't exactly best friends these days. We're not even really on speaking terms. At least not since we returned home from the Games and the Capitol's media craze for us had died down. For the first week or so back in District 12, we must have conducted enough interviews to keep them in star-crossed lover footage for months, considering all the hand-holding and kissing we'd been required to do. For as much of an act as it may have been in the Arena, all of it was twice as contrived afterwards. And every minute of it had been excruciating. Peeta's eyes had lost their shine, and I could tell that his smiles were forced. And when we kissed, his lips felt colder and more lifeless than they ever had on his deathbed.

Since then, we've only spoken three times to one another.

The first time, it was District 12's first Parcel Day and we'd both been there to greet the train full of the Capitol's goods. It had been a big production, with cameras and reporters and more fake laughs and kisses on cheeks as we shared the duties of passing out the rations of enriched grains and cans of vegetables to needy, grateful hands. But even with the awkward tension between us, it had been a good day. Nothing had made me happier knowing that at least we had something to do with everyone in 12 going to bed with full stomachs that night.

The second time, Peeta and I had both gone running over to Haymitch's after hearing an incredibly loud banging noise that emanated from his house with such force that I'd heard it all the way from my upstairs bedroom. It turned out that Haymitch had just been attempting to move an old dresser up to his attic—which had been a complete and total shock to the both of us—and it had tumbled down the flight of stairs, crashing into pieces on the second floor landing. Luckily—or maybe unluckily, depending on your opinion of Haymitch—Haymitch had been fine. Though he seemed content to let the two of us clean up the pieces wordlessly while he swigged his flask of liquor, watching us. And then when we were done, he'd stared between us, declaring we should _just kiss and make up already_, and snorting to himself at his joke.

Peeta had given Haymitch the dirtiest look I've ever seen cross his face after that. "C'mon Katniss," he'd said, turning to me. "Let's go." I'd followed him out silently, but when he muttered under his breath that _next time, we'd let him clean up his own mess for once_, I wondered if Peeta caught the small smile I couldn't help from forming on my lips.

Our third interaction had been the most awkward of them all. Last month, we'd both been heading back to Victor's Village at the same time—myself from trading, or really _buying_, at the Hob, and Peeta was returning from his family's bakery with a few loaves of bread under his arm. We'd been forced to walk the path home together. Together. And alone. Something we hadn't really been in months. We'd barely been able to say more than ten words to one another. Although, when we reached my yard, Peeta refused to take no for an answer when he offered me a loaf of bread. I actually think that exchange accounted for most of our conversation's word count.

But even though I was nervous—and if I'm being honest, a little afraid, too—I headed toward Peeta's house after I left Haymitch's. Though to be fair, just the thought of Peeta being alone tonight and peering out his window at a brightly lit house full of people was enough to propel me to his front door even without Haymitch's suggestion.

Peeta had declined, and looked surprised I'd even asked, after he came to his door wearing a green lamb's wool sweater and dark corduroy slacks. And I'd spent most of the time looking over his shoulder, unable to meet his eye. His house looked just like mine, except with much less life to it. There were no family photos on his walls, no random articles of clothing belonging to his parents or brothers. And no stupid ugly useless cat roaming the floors.

"I'm supposed to go to Madge's," he'd explained, stuffing his hands into his pockets. The Mayor's party. It made sense, and I bet his family would even be there.

"Okay," I'd told him simply with a short nod, not wanting to keep him, reasoning it was because it was cold outside and he looked like he was shivering. But really, I'd just wanted to get away, the guilt settling in from the relief I felt. The idea of Peeta being in my house made me nervous. And the thought of him being in my house at the same time as Gale made me weary.

Peeta doesn't know this—_no one_ knows this—but Gale and I have kissed since I've been back. It happened the first Sunday we both hunted in the woods. And it came out of nowhere. Well, not _entirely_ out of nowhere, but I hadn't been expecting it. And afterwards, I couldn't reconcile it with the ones I'd shared with Peeta during the Games. I don't count the ones that had happened afterward, because those were clearly fake. But some of the others, especially the one in the cave—I haven't figured those out yet. They'd felt so different. And now I know that they also felt different than the one I shared with Gale.

That's as far as I've gotten though. That they felt different. Not worse, not better. Not really, at least. I guess it also seems unfair to compare them. And I've spent more time and energy trying not to think about it than actually thinking about it, because none of it should matter anyway. There are people dying every day in District 12 and children killing each other every year come summer time. Dissecting how I feel about Peeta, or Gale for that matter, is a waste of time.

We've all just sat down to dinner around the dining room table when the doorbell rings. Prim jumps up from her chair, answering the door before I can even unfreeze myself from the surprise. At first I think it's Haymitch, who's had some sort of miraculous change of heart. But my heart flutters unexpectedly when Prim throws the door open and Peeta's standing there instead, wearing his nicest overcoat and his hair neatly combed behind his ears.

"Katniss! He came!" Prim's cheery voice calls out to me, but it's unnecessary because I'm up and moving toward the front door at the sight of him. Peeta's eyes meet mine, and my stomach drops as he shakes his head at me. He holds out the plate of cheese buns he's brought with him, and Prim graciously takes them from him takes them. They're covered in a thin sheet of plastic wrap, and by the way the plastic's fogged over, I can tell they're still warm. They smell just like I remember them from the bakery, and the memory is so vivid I can practically taste it—rich and savory and melting on your tongue, the cheese making them messy to eat, but so good you even lick the grease from your fingers. I haven't had one since that time I'd traded Peeta's father two especially large squirrels and he'd declared the small loaf of nut bread inequitable. I'd protested, but Mr. Mellark had tucked a cheese bun into the bottom of the bag anyway. It was the best thing I'd eaten that year.

"I'm just on my way out," Peeta explains. "But I made an extra batch. I wanted your…family to have them." Peeta's eyes travel past me, and I turn to see Gale peering at the scene from his place at the table, his jaw setting firmly when my gray eyes meet his. I look back to Peeta, who looks down at his feet.

"Have a nice night. Happy New Year, Katniss."

His words hit me harder than they should for just a pleasantry. But I can't help but think that a _new year_ is something neither of us ever thought we'd see just a few months ago.

"You too," I manage to respond softly, watching him leave, his steps careful but quick as he makes his way down the front stairs of our porch and back to the road that will take him into town. The temperature's dropped well below freezing, and a few flakes of snow blow in the sky. I frown, not liking him traveling alone in the cold and the dark. Though he's probably used to it by now.

* * *

When we were little, it was a big deal for our mother and father to let Prim and I stay up late on New Year's Eve. My father would trade specifically for something special for us to toast with—one year it was an orange, the next a few scoops of ice cream, another year it was a small bottle of what he called sparkling cider. Back then, all of it seemed so exciting and luxurious, and we'd huddle over the old fire place with scratchy blankets and my father would tell silly stories that made us laugh and my mother roll her eyes. And then when the clock struck midnight, we'd share the special item, and my father insisted on kissing each and every one of us. _For good luck._

He'd save my mother for last, of course. And I remember the way her eyes would flutter closed, completely enamored by the way he'd sweep her into his arms for an exaggeratedly romantic kiss. Prim and I would giggle and my mother's cheeks would turn red when it was over.

Those are good memories.

This year, I'm just tired. I want to blame the full stomach of turkey and apple sauce and potatoes and cheese buns that even Gale couldn't deny his plate, but I know it's more than that. It's barely eleven, and the kids are loud, playing an animated game of Go Fish. The television drones in the background, and a special Capitol presentation airs, counting down the biggest moments from Panem's 74th year since the Rebellion. Not surprisingly, mine and Peeta's romance and double Hunger Games' victory comes in at number one.

The room goes silent as the Capitol reporter speaks over footage of us almost eating the berries, kissing at the reunion show, and holding our hands up victoriously at the District 12 train station. Then she declares that _it's only a few weeks until the Victory Tour starts, so we'll be seeing our newest Victors soon._

I bolt for the door before she can finish telling the country the scheduled air times of the live coverage.

No one stops me from going outside. And the cold, snowy almost January air is a welcome respite. If anyone thinks about coming after me, they know better than to follow through, and I'm left alone with my thoughts and my short, shallow breaths, trying to calm myself down from the realization that I'll be in the Capitol two weeks from now. I'd been doing so well at forgetting up until now, too.

At least five minutes of shockingly cold air that helps to numb my brain pass before I see him. Pale hair reflecting silver in the moonlight, his stocky figure making its way back, spotted at the end of the street that keeps the twelve houses making up Victor's Village in two straight rows. His gait is much better than it was during those first months he spent on his new artificial leg, but in the snow and what looks like a layer of ice on the ground, his footing would be unsure even on two good legs.

"Hey!" I call, unable to stop myself from running out to the street to greet him. Help him, even.

His face looks confused and surprised at first, but then it quickly turns to concerned when he sees me. Peeta shakes his head as I reach him, breathless from my trip. "Katniss, it's freezing out here. What are you doing?"

I don't care about my lack of outerwear or the fact that the wind whistles through the trees in the background. I care that when I get close enough, I can see in his eyes how tired he is. He looks how I feel.

"What are you doing home already?" I ask, even though I know what his answer will be. It's hard to be the person in the room peoples' eyes gravitate towards; the topic of conversation people want to have, although not necessarily _with_ you. _About_ you. The person no one was expecting would be here to ring in the year of the Quarter Quell. It's nice to recognize it on someone else—my exhaustion with a world who, yes, knows misery, but doesn't know the price of taking another's life. Or the mental fatigue of the ghosts that haunt my nightmares.

Instantly, there's a mutual understanding without either of us having to say anything. Peeta sighs softly. "Do you want to come in?"

I nod.

* * *

I don't look back toward my own house as Peeta leads me into his, flipping on a light in the entry way to lead us into his kitchen where he moves about, drawing a quart of milk out of the refrigerator and pouring it into a small pan he places on the stove. He tells me, somewhat sheepishly, that Effie recently sent him some of the Capitol mix to make the hot chocolate he liked so much and I don't complain that he wants to share it with me. I settle into a chair at his kitchen table, and Peeta slides down across from me carefully.

"Are you ready for the New Year?" he asks softly.

I shrug, chewing on my bottom lip, trying not to feel nervous under the gaze of his blue eyes that I haven't really seen, at least not like this, in months. "I'm ready for this year to be over."

Peeta smiles a conflicted smile that only I can appreciate because it includes relief and sadness and knowledge that he probably never wanted. "Me too," he agrees.

"How was the party?" I ask, thinking it must not have been much better than the one at my house if he'd ended up at home well before midnight.

"Long," he sighs, honestly. "And tiring. People were asking about you, you know." Peeta leans back in his chair, and he taps his fingers against the wood of his table. "Some of them…wondered why they don't see the two of us together very much."

My face flushes at the accusation, and I realize I can't avoid the fact that I've been essentially ignoring Peeta forever.

"What did—what did you tell them?" I breathe, afraid of his answer.

Peeta shrugs, breaking my gaze. "Anything I could to get them to change the subject." Then he sighs again, sounding even more tired now. "Katniss. Are you sure you don't want to go back to your…family?"

That's the second time he's said it like that tonight. And his meaning isn't lost on me. It can't be easy for Peeta, watching me spend time with Gale. Especially when I've spent virtually no time with him.

But it's not like that, not really. I shouldn't have to make a choice between the two of them. They mean different things to me, in different ways; it shouldn't be a competition. Yet that's what it feels like. Especially because I'm sure that Gale's general refusal to trudge to Victor's Village, with the exception of tonight, is at least in part because Gale wants nothing to do with Peeta. Not that he and I have talked about Peeta directly or anything, since that's not something we'd ever do, but Gale's made more than one passive aggressive comment about my _merchant Victor boyfriend_ for me to know where his opinion of Peeta stands. Which is only confusing and upsetting to me, considering I most likely wouldn't be alive without Peeta.

So I understand Peeta's position loud and clear. To him, I've drawn my line in the sand. But sand is a funny thing. You can hold onto handfuls of it if you close your fist. But just as easily, if you open up your palm, every single grain will slip through your fingers.

"Can I stay here instead?" I ask weakly, picking at the leftover dessert Peeta's set out while we wait for the milk to warm.

"Yes," he breathes, reaching for my hand across the table and stilling it when it his slips on top of mine. It's the first time we've touched voluntarily since the Games. His thumb brushes across my skin tentatively, as if he also realizes this. "You can stay as long as you want."

"Peeta," I start, and the words create a knot in my stomach that makes them hard to get out. But his earnest blue eyes look on patiently, and I know it's important that I finish. "I'm sorry. For the way…I left things. For not checking in with you more." I swallow the doubt and the fear that makes my next ones the hardest to say. "For wanting to forget."

"It's okay, Katniss. I get it." He drops his hand from mine, leaning against the hard back of his chair with a soft sigh. "I want to leave most of it in the past too. But some of it—some of the good, I can't help but hang onto. I've missed you a lot, you know."

A wave of memories wash through me. The way his smile was a mix of pity and sadness when he'd told me about not wanting to be a piece in the Capitol's games on the rooftop of the training center. The flash of his white teeth, distinctive and comforting, when I'd found him in the mud and rocks by the river of the Arena. How hot and chapped his lips had been the first time I'd kissed him, the boy with the bread so sick and dying on the floor of that damp cave. How, when I'd expected him to be angry and upset at me after realizing I'd risked my life for his at the Feast at the Cornucopia, he'd surprised me by just seeming relieved I was still there with him afterwards. How, when he'd kissed me after both of us were no longer on the verge of death, it had warmed me from the inside out. And the way he has this uncanny ability to make me feel safe, even in the face of unimaginable danger.

I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding when Peeta makes his way over to the stove. I watch him stick a finger in the pan of milk to test the temperature.

"Maybe…" I start off, unsure, and his head turns to me at the sound of my voice. "Maybe this year things can be different."

"I think they'll have to be," he says sadly, and busies himself with readying two mugs for our hot chocolate.

"Good point," I sigh.

Peeta returns to the table, handing me my mug, which I accept gratefully, blowing on the hot liquid before taking a small sip. It tastes rich and decadent and I'm pretty sure a small moan escapes my lips. I haven't had hot chocolate since the Games, and I'd forgotten just how good it is. Peeta smiles quietly, sipping from his own cup.

"Do you think this is what liquor tastes like to Haymitch?" I ask, drinking more of the liquid greedily when it cools enough to do so.

Peeta's smile grows and he shakes his head at me with a shrug. His smile is genuine and I watch, memorized by his blond lashes pressing together when he blinks. Then he looks back at me with a more serious gaze.

"Do you ever worry that we'll end up like him?"

I frown. The thought hadn't crossed my mind. And then there's Peeta, who's thinking three steps ahead, worried about the future when I can't be bothered to make it past the terror of the present.

"Not really," I attempt to say light-heartedly, thinking this isn't a conversation we should be having right now. "And besides," I say with a wave of my hand, "you'll always have me to make sure you don't turn into a surly old drunk hermit."

At least this does what I intended it to do. It makes Peeta laugh. I laugh too, setting my mug down on the table. Peeta places his drink down too, looking back up at me. "You're never going to stop trying to protect me, are you?"

"That's what you and I do," I shrug, the words falling easily but softly out of my mouth. "And you have to make sure I don't end up calling all of the future tributes _Sweetheart_, you know."

Peeta's face falls. I'm sure mine does too. I'd obviously meant to keep the mood light, but with the accidental reference to _future tributes_, I've done the complete opposite.

I look out the window, no longer able to look at him. It's started to snow again. Big, soft, white snowflakes that shimmer beneath the gas lit street lamps lining the road. Then I instinctively check the clock hanging on the wall above Peeta's stove. It's just minutes until midnight. And suddenly all I can think about is how Prim's going to be upset if I'm not there with her for the New Year.

Peeta watches me, smiling ruefully, as if he's read my mind. "Go home, Katniss. You should be with them right now."

I hate how he says it like that. Like he's just some outsider keeping me from _them_. As if he doesn't know that after all we've been through together, he means something to me too. Although I guess I've done absolutely nothing to tell him that.

"You should come with me," I offer, and this time I really want him to accept my invitation.

"Katniss," he says warily, scratching the hair behind his left ear. He looks exhausted just at the thought.

And I don't have the heart to press him.

* * *

Peeta walks me to the door, insisting I wear his coat for the short walk back. I want to roll my eyes, because I live across the street, not five miles away, but I can't say no when he holds the dark gray pea coat out to me, helping me slide my arms through the big sleeves and fixing the collar at the back of my neck when it hangs heavy on my shoulders.

"Thanks," I say, turning to face him after we step out onto his front porch. The snow's coming down even harder now, and it's starting to stick. We're unmoving and silent as I button up the jacket carefully. And when I look back up, all I can register is Peeta's blond lashes and snowflakes catching in them, the scent of cinnamon and dill that either comes from his coat or directly from him, and that I've somehow taken a step closer to him. My breath hitches when I realize my chin's tilting up to his and he's not stopping me.

And then we're kissing. Peeta's lips feel warm and soft. And familiar. His palm cups my cheek, and I let myself lean into his touch. It feels like we're in the cave, even though we're a world away from that dark, wet, death-riddled place, because the unexpected heat that begins to grow in the pit of my stomach is exactly the same.

It's a good kiss. A long kiss, too. And when it ends, I want another. I open my eyes slowly, lazily even, not expecting to see Peeta frowning down at me. His hands brush against the sides of my shoulders gently before he takes a step back.

"Katniss." His voice is strained, and I can't figure out why he looks sad. All I know is it makes me feel slightly sick. I never mean to cause him pain, but it never stops me from somehow doing it anyway.

"No cameras," he says with a short, firm shake of his head. "No need for that."

I'm not sure if my mouth or my heart drops further. But I know that there's a hot wetness building behind my eyes and I have to look away so he can't see the embarrassment and the hurt on my face.

"Happy New Year, Peeta," I mumble, biting my lip to keep it from quivering. And then I turn and run, through the snow and the street, right back to my house, wiping the heat of his lips from mine with the back of my hand.

He doesn't call after me. Peeta doesn't say or do a thing, except let me leave.

When I reach my front door, I take a hiccupping breath, fighting hard to keep the water in my eyes from rolling down my face because I know I'm going to have to plaster on a smile and pretend like nothing's wrong.

I have no idea what just happened. I was just trying to make things better between us. But obviously it was a terrible, stupid idea, because all I ended up doing was manage to make things much, much worse.

Before pushing the door open and returning to the celebration, I turn to look back at Peeta.

But he's already gone.


End file.
